


Be My Valentine?

by goodnight_tinyhumans



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Valentine's Day, Winchester Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:18:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodnight_tinyhumans/pseuds/goodnight_tinyhumans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The third time Dean asks Sam to be his valentine...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be My Valentine?

**Author's Note:**

> Figures that my first foray into Wincest would be super cutesy holiday fluff okay? Wrote this post-6x14 and posted it to LJ where it just didn't get read... so. Have a Valentine's fic.

The hotel room was silent when Dean Winchester finally made the transition from a deep sleep to the awake-but-still-pretending-to-sleep-to-judge-any-potential-threats phase that he had used since he was little. It was a very empty silence; no Sam sounds, like his ever-present breathing or the tapping of laptop keys or the flipping of pages. Dean assumed that Sam had gone out for breakfast or something, and Cas hadn’t been around for a while, and since there were no signs of anything in the room that potentially wanted to eat him, Dean figured it was probably time to get up.

Dean stretched his arms up over his head with a yawn before rolling over.

Right onto something with a sharp edge that dug right into his ribs.

With a groan, Dean pushed himself up onto his knees to inspect what it was that he’d rolled onto. An envelope? Curious, Dean picked it up, noticing that his name was scrawled across the front. In Sam’s handwriting. Confused, because Sam didn’t normally leave him notes, and hoping like hell that this didn’t mean Sam had run off, Dean ripped the side of the envelope open to reveal a tiny, tacky little kid’s valentine card. It was worn around the edges, like it had been opened and closed many times, and when Dean opened it he felt a rush of… something. Something a lot like love.

He remembered this valentine; he’d begged his dad for them one year, when he was ten and he had been feeling left out because all week his friends had been talking about the valentines they were going to give out. So he’d begged John, who had snorted something about pointless holidays, but who had nonetheless come home later, smelling like beer and tossing the box of Star Wars valentines onto the couch next to Dean before going to bed.

Sammy had been six, and to keep him quiet Dean had given him the job of handing him the cards one by one. Sam had sat there like the good little kid he was, and since they’d seen Star Wars and Sam already knew how to read, he would read them out loud before handing them to Dean, grinning like he’d just singlehandedly won the Super Bowl. And then once he’d written out all his cards, there was one left, and of course he scribbled down his brother’s name and gave it to him. He’d gotten a huge hug for it, and Sammy had kept the card with him for weeks.

And now he was looking down on it again, twenty-plus years later. The picture was a bit faded, the ink that had scrawled his and Sam’s names a little bit smudged. He’d had no idea that Sam had kept it, or why he’d given it back to Dean.

And then it hit him.

_“Be my Valentine?” Dean asked, pushing the plastic heart towards his brother. Sam met his eyes and there was a flash of something, some emotion, wasn’t there, before he rolled his eyes and told Dean to put it away?_

Be my Valentine.

Dean stared down at the small piece of cardboard for another few minutes, putting together pieces of the puzzle that was him and Sam and _him-and-Sam_ in his head before getting up, throwing on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and heading out the door, the Valentine’s card safe in his pocket.

Sam was exactly where Dean thought he’d be: the crappy little diner down the street where they’d stopped for dinner the night before. He was sitting in the far corner, a cup of coffee and a newspaper in front of him, even though he wasn’t paying attention to either of those things. Instead, he was staring out the window, sporting his ‘brooding and pensive’ shoulders, and Dean couldn’t help but smile. Sam didn’t notice him until Dean had almost reached the table, and when he looked up, and his eyes met Dean’s, the range of emotion that flitted through them actually surprised him. Sammy looked nervous, mostly; nervous with a tinge of excitement, hunger, and…love? There was that pesky emotion again, damnit.

Dean slid into the booth across from Sam, who was looking more on edge every second. Dean flashed him a smile, hoping to calm him down at least a little, and he almost burst out laughing when Sam’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped comically.

“Dean-”

“Can I getcha somethin’ now that your pal’s here, sugar?” It took Sam a second to figure out that someone was talking to him, but he managed to stammer out his usual order in places like these, a bacon-and-eggs breakfast with toast and more coffee. Dean just nodded when she asked him if he wanted the same, and then they were alone again.

“Dean,” Sam began again, and Dean just shook his head in response. He reached down to the pocket of his jeans, pulled out the beaten up old Valentine’s card, and slid it across the table until his fingers brushed Sam’s.

“The offer still stands,” he told him quietly with a tiny smile. Sam watched him for a moment, before breaking into the huge Sammy-grin that had been missing from his face for far too long. He flipped his hand over, palm up on the dented Formica table, and Dean had to suppress a shiver as he pressed the card into Sam’s palm and curled their fingers together.

Sam’s eyes didn’t leave his, and their hands stayed linked together until the waitress brought their food, eyeing them like she wanted to say something about the fact that two men were holding hands in _her_ restaurant; only then did they let go, and Sam folded the card up once more, slipping it into his pocket. They were quiet while they ate, and when they were finished, Sam dropped a twenty on the table. He stood, giving a little stretch and a yawn.

“Didn’t get much sleep, did ya, Sasquatch?” Dean asked him, lips quirking up into a smirk. He downed the rest of his coffee in a single gulp, then stood up next to Sam. He glanced over to see their waitress whispering to the cook, watching them, and suddenly he didn’t give a fuck about everything that people would say was wrong about their situation. Sammy was his, and he was Sam’s; they’d been each other’s their entire lives and what they had now- whatever they were going to call it- was so  _right_  for them that it almost hurt.

So, looking the woman straight in the eyes, he slung an arm around Sam’s waist, pulling him close. He nuzzled into Sam’s shoulder for just a second, closing his eyes briefly and inhaling the smell of books and Old Spice, and then they walked out together into the light of the new day.

 


End file.
